The World Reborn
by Cristokos
Summary: A disjointed story telling the story of Dave, a young survivor from Michigan, the Survivors we know and love, and the world during and after the pandemic. The war is over; now comes the age of rebirth. Rated T for language. Slash warning.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This was supposed to be a disjointed collection of one-shots, but instead I think there will be a coherent story. I like to consider the aftereffects of the apocalypse...our entire world will be different!

Let me know what you guys think! I took out the first chapter because I felt its place in the story was still inappropriate.

It was quite chilly out today, Dave reflected as he walked along the road. A gust of wind blasted him, evoking a rise of goose bumps on his pale, exposed arms. The endless amber oceans of wheat bent under the force of the wind, but the gale was brief and soon only a light breeze remained, the grain swaying slowly. The wind seemed to carry with it a sense of melancholy, as if along its journeys across the world it had picked up all the sorrow of mankind…and these days, those sorrows were many.

Dave didn't know what the hell he was feeling right now. He just kept reflecting on the past few days.

Dave Dijkstra didn't believe in luck, but he was beginning to wonder if his faith, or rather lack thereof, had been misplaced. He couldn't find any other explanation for the astounding fact that he still drew breath after a week of running across Michigan's Lower Peninsula, desperately trying to escape detection and slaughter by a horde of Infected, all without any weapons more than a pistol, any form of transportation besides his own two feet, and, most importantly, any idea of what he was going to do.

It was just his fucking luck that he had picked this weekend, of every cursed free weekend he had, to go visit Tyler at Saginaw Valley State. He had been happily anticipating a weekend of debauchery: drinking himself into a stupor, chasing tail, and making a general ass out of himself. They had just gotten started when the apocalypse reached them.

They had all heard of the Green Flu in Pennsylvania. It was unnerving, of course, but that could be also be said of the Cold War or even of the past decade. They had all trusted the government to resolve the situation, quarantine those few infected with the disease, and find a cure. The media had been oddly quiet on the disease, a very, very strange occurrence considering how well sensational journalism sold. Dave had never known a newspaper or TV station that _wouldn't_ jump on such an easy way to make cash, but very little had been said of the disease except that it existed and the government was taking steps to quarantine the infected.

Tyler had scoffed at the idea of a pandemic, noting the unfulfilled prophecies of doom surrounding the avian and swine flu epidemics. He said that if the disease reached Michigan, it would likely spread to only a small portion of the population, maybe kill a few hundred people across the country, and die out.

No one had anticipated how rapidly it would spread. How could they have known?

It hit like a tidal wave. Dave had been dancing at a frat party, enjoying a pleasant buzz while ogling a cute frat boy dancing nearby him, when the torrential scream of a crowd upstairs pierced through the blaring music and noise of the party on the main floor. Panicked party goers raced downstairs, fleeing some unknown catastrophe. Dave watched in horror as several people were trampled to death in the frenzy.

_This is a frat house, not a soccer stadium in Europe!_

Then he saw the first of them.

It was a woman with dirty blonde hair. She was attractive, or would have been, had her face not been marred by an expression of feral rage. Her hands, twisted, almost claw-like, were covered in crimson, as were her mouth and clothes. She immediately pounced on a nearby frat brother and began to claw at him. A bloody geyser exploded from his neck when she ripped open his jugular, and he collapsed to the floor. There was no way he was still alive.

And pandemonium swept over the room.

The mob swarmed towards the exit, but it was too small to admit more than a person or two at a time. Dave hung back, stunned by what he had just witnessed. He heard more terrified screams from upstairs, followed by the sounds of multiple windows being shattered. A rapid succession of thuds outside told him that some had opted to jump from the second story to escape the rabid monsters.

Unfortunately, some of those who escaped from the windows were those very same monsters, which immediately tore into the fleeing crowd, slaughtering at will. Dave noticed that some people turned in the middle of the attack, as they were fleeing the carnage. The change was rapid: one minute, they were fleeing for their lives, but within sixty short seconds they about-faced and sprinted back to tear apart their former compatriots. One of these raked its claws down a petite girl's front, and she collapsed. Several Infected swarmed her while she down and shredded her to pieces.

Dave immediately snapped out of it. He knew if he waited too much longer, he was done for.

_Where the hell was Tyler?_

He could very well be in the crowd, in which case there was no hope Dave could reach him. He couldn't seek him upstairs or he would instantly be torn to bloody shreds, and if he went downstairs he would be trapped. There was nothing for it. Dave needed to escape. He would call Tyler's phone later.

_God, please don't let anything happen to him._

Dave scanned the room, sickly fortunate that the crazed madmen (and women) were focused on other targets, particularly the crowd. Another shattered window gave him an idea. He noticed that to his right, none of the windows had been broken. He dashed towards one, picked up a nearby stool and smashed the glass. He pondered shouting to alert the others, but immediately dismissed it. It would merely draw attention from the beasts. Anyone lucky enough to notice what he had done could make use of his escape. Not very altruistic, but he needed to live.

He jumped through the window, rolling on the ground. Sharp pain blossomed in his right arm as a glass shard pierced his skin. His arm felt like it was on fire. He wanted to scream, but the adrenaline saved him from that potentially fatal mistake. Bracing himself, Dave quickly pulled the shard out, pressed his coat against the wound to try and stop the bleeding, and kept on sprinting. The symphony of slaughter faded behind him. When he could no longer hear the screams, Dave stopped for a second and examined his wound. He still bleeding a lot, but he doubted he would suffer anything worse than a weak arm. Thankfully, he was left-handed, and could suffer a handicap in his right arm.

In his pause, Dave took a second to analyze the situation. It had not yet occurred to him that this incident could be connected to the Green Flu. No infections had been reported anywhere in the vicinity, except for a dozen isolated cases in the suburbs of Detroit. The official description of the disease had noted a loss of higher brain functions, but had never mentioned its victims turning into crazed, rabid animals. This was beyond anything he had ever imagined.

Dave was good at keeping a cool head; it was one of his greatest assets. He refused to muse on the cause of the bloodbath at the frat house, preferring to focus his energies on planning his next move. His first priority was to get to a hospital to have this wound taken care of before it became infected. At this point, he was operating under the assumption that this was an isolated incident. He heard absolutely nothing now, having distanced himself sufficiently from the chaos.

That was when he noticed the utter emptiness of his surroundings. There were no signs of life at all. This was a party night. There should be a parade of stumbling, drunk sorority girls and inebriated jackasses making its way around the campus, but there was only an unnerving silence. Not even the insects were making noise.

Lost in his thoughts, he carelessly tripped over some heavy object in the street and tumbled onto the sidewalk, landing on his wounded arm, eliciting a scream of pain. After cursing in every language he knew, he propped himself up and wiped the moisture from his eyes. He then turned his gaze down at the offending obstacle.

It was a body, lying still in a large pool of dark blood. It had once been a young man, but he appeared to have been mauled to death by some creature savage beyond description. Dave stared, the dots connecting in his head. The frat house was not an isolated incident, and this area was quiet because it had likely already been cleansed of human life by the monsters.

A piercing, inhuman shriek jolted him from his revelation. He spun around to see a fat woman charging at him, her eyes glowing yellow in the darkness, her clothes dyed red with human blood. For the second time that night, Dave's calm failed him, and he simply stared at his attacker, soon to be his killer, as she charged at him with far more speed than such a portly woman should have been capable of. Dave knew it was over.

A shot erupted, cutting the bitch's screams short as the bullet blew her head apart like a watermelon smashed onto concrete. She collapsed onto the ground, twitching for a few moments before becoming limp. Dave awoke from his stupor and turned in the direction of the noise, looking for his savior.

He saw a handsome, middle aged man who appeared to be of Middle-Eastern descent lowering a pistol to his side. His dark hair was curled and he wore a well-kept beard that would have made him a walking stereotype except for his choice of dress: an expensive looking brown leather jacket and a pair of jeans soiled with blood. Except for those bloodstains, he looked very well groomed. Dave had seen more blood tonight than he had in his entire life. While he reflected on this, the man began to approach him.

The bronze-skinned man grabbed him by the shoulders and looked at him straight in the eyes.

"_Shaab_, are you alright?" he inquired, his voice betraying a slight, pleasant accent. He smelt like blood, a sickly sweet, rusty scent that made Dave want to vomit. Judging by the manner in which the older man had addressed him, Dave could assume that his rescuer was an Arab, as _shaab_ was Arabic for "young man." Thank God for Jordanian neighbors, not that the information was particularly useful in the current situation.

"Yes…thank you. What was that?" Dave replied.

The man noticed Dave's limp, bleeding arm. He quickly examined the wound, handling it perhaps a bit too roughly, causing another yell to build up in Dave's throat. The stranger seemed to detect this and quickly shot a hand out and covered Dave's mouth.

"You fool!" he exclaimed in a harsh whisper, "Do you want to alert every single one of those monstrosities within hearing range? I cannot destroy fifty of them if they charge us at once!" He turned his attention back to Dave's wound, and Dave clenched his teeth and bore the pain of the man's attentions. "This will get infected and you will lose your arm if something is not done. Come, quickly."

They darted into a nearby house. The floors inside were smashed, soaked in blood, and covered with the corpses of Infected. At least they'd be safe here.

The man took out a well-stocked first aid kit and cleaned out the wound with hydrogen peroxide and a cloth, all the while scanning their surroundings to prevent ambush by the rabid Infected. He bandaged the wound, and although the peroxide stung, Dave already felt better. At least his arm could heal.

The man sealed the first aid kit and handed it to Dave. Dave simply held it in his hands, staring at the man like an idiot, until the man's level stare brought Dave to the realization that he was expected to hold onto this. After this understanding had been reached, the man pulled out a pistol and held it out to Dave.

"Can you shoot?" he asked.

Dave had shot guns before, though never a pistol. His experience with firearms was limited to firing rifles when he was a boy scout, and he had been notorious in his troop for his abysmal aim. His scoutmaster had joked that Dave could escape the draft on account of the fact that he would likely be a greater threat to his comrades than his enemies.

Damn it. It looked like he was going to have to learn. "Not really, but I don't have a choice, do I?"

The man shook his head sadly and handed Dave the pistol. "God willing_,_ you shall learn or you shall perish." He scanned their surroundings once more. "Do you have an automobile?"

Automobile? Why the hell couldn't he just say car? Come to think of it, this guy had the oddest way of speaking, but his English was absolutely flawless.

_This really isn't the time to analyze his English, Davy boy. _"Yes."

"Can you find your way there?"

"Yes, assuming I'm not ripped to shreds."

"I will be here to guard you, _shaab_."

Well, that was a giant relief. "May I ask…who are you? And what the fuck is going on?"

The man clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Keep your words and thoughts pure, _shaab_. My name is Ibrahim, and you are fortunate enough to bear witness to the end of the world," he explained nonchalantly, as if he were merely pointing out something of mild interest on a pleasant evening stroll. "Where is your automobile?"

This guy was likely bat-shit insane, but Dave wasn't refusing any help. He pointed in the relevant direction, at which point Ibrahim took off in a hustle. Dave bounded forward and passed him, leading his newfound ally to his car.

For a while, they encountered no resistance. As they continued on, eventually slowing to a quick walk as their breath became short. But the closer they came to Dave's car, the more and more bodies they discovered sprawled on the streets. Some of them had been shredded beyond recognition, their arms or legs flung in various directions, often with entire chunks of flesh missing from their heads. Dave lost it and sprayed puke all over the street. Ibrahim came up, gripped his shoulders to steady him, and allowed Dave a few seconds to compose himself.

"We cannot stop now, _shaab_. We will likely encounter the crazed ones soon. Do not let your fear consume you. Aim and fire. They are as fragile as human beings, despite the disease that courses through the passages of their bodies."

Did this guy not know how to speak like a normal human being? Dave had a large vocabulary and could write elegantly, but not even he actually employed this kind of speech in everyday life, especially not in a crisis like this.

Then the meaning of his words hit Dave. "This is the Green Flu," he said.

Ibrahim nodded grimly. Before he could offer any form of explanation, the shrill, raging screams of zombies pierced the silence of the night. Dave swung around, baring his pistol, to see seven Infected rushing towards them. Their attackers appeared to have been frat brothers and sorority girls, dressed in makeshift, ragged togas. They charged, and Dave froze. Half an hour ago, he had been dancing with people like this. How could he just shoot them?

Ibrahim had no such qualms. He unloaded four rapid shots, each a perfect hit that resulted in a kill. Dave, hands shaking and breath rapid with fear, fired until his clip was empty, taking no heed to aim. He managed to kill one of the frat brothers and cripple one of the girls. Ibrahim quickly dispatched the remaining Infected with ease and put the injured one down. He turned to Dave and regarded him with another unnerving, calm, level stae.

"Do not hold yourself back," he lectured. "They are no longer human beings, and they shall show you no mercy, for they no longer have hearts in which it can dwell. They are rabid beasts, and you must put them down without remorse."

Dave took a few breaths before trusting himself to speak. "I can do that. I can do that."

Ibrahim's gaze shot up. He lifted his pistol and shot right over Dave's shoulder. Dave heard the sound of a gurgle and a choke, followed by a thud as a sack of flesh collapsed onto the pavement. Dave didn't need to look back to know what it was. He didn't need to look back, but something prodded him. Something pulled him, and he found himself turning, not knowing why he didn't just keep moving forward.

_Tyler._

It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a case of friendly fire. His friend had turned. There was only some blood on him, indicating that he had likely not had the chance to find any victims to sate his bloodlust. His face was twisted into a dark expression of rage, at odds with the single mark of pink lipstick on his cheek. His normally tan skin had paled to bleach white. His belt had been undone and his pants were sagging. He had probably been about to get lucky when it finally hit him.

Dave stared at Tyler's corpse as his best friend's blood pooled around the headshot wound, his mind unable to comprehend what he was staring at. Tyler was dead. His best friend of ten years was gone.

"_Yaa shaab."_

Dave turned and faced Ibrahim. Ibrahim held his gaze briefly, and then closed his eyes. He knew. Just by reading Dave's face, Ibrahim knew that he had just killed someone dear to Dave's heart.

Dave couldn't even cry. He was too shocked to think. "He was my best friend…we…"

Dave couldn't blame Ibrahim. He accepted rather quickly the reality of the situation. Had Tyler caught up to him, he would have slaughtered Dave. That wasn't Tyler anymore…Tyler had perished the minute the virus took hold. There would be enough time to cry later.

Ibrahim detected Dave's steeled resolve and nodded. They proceeded onwards.

After another ten minutes, they reached the parking lot. It was a mess. Some cars had been turned over or vandalized, their windows smashed in. Many were stained with blood. There were even a few that were burning, although Dave couldn't imagine why. It was like a scene from a war.

Dave spotted his silver Focus almost instantly. Thankfully, it was unscathed.

When they reached the car, Ibrahim handed Dave a pack. Inside were six clips of ammo for the pistol, a map of Michigan, and another first aid kit. Such treasures. Then another revelation hit Dave.

"You're not going with me. You gave me this pack for my survival…which means that this shit is happening all over. Why aren't you coming with me?" he demanded.

Ibrahim chuckled, a deep, full laughter that somewhat disturbed Dave. "I have more to help, _shaab_. You are correct. The plague is racing across this country, and soon it shall spread all over the world. You cannot outrun it."

"How am I supposed to live then?"

"There is an evacuation station in Chicago. If you can reach the city in time, you can escape."

"How do you know all this?"

Ibrahim didn't reply.

Just then, Dave noticed an Infected idling a few cars down, at the same time when the abomination took note of his presence. The Infected geared up to charge Dave, but Dave whipped out his pistol, aimed, and fired. Naturally, he missed, and his bullet shot into the car…which began to beep and blare its sirens at full volume.

_Oh…shit_.

Ibrahim quickly took down the Infected, but Dave heard many more screams coming from their right. An entire horde of enraged Infected was charging at them, although they were still a good distance away. Their shrill screams hurt Dave's ears, and his chest began to constrict with fear. He would have stayed there, shaking helplessly, had Ibrahim not immediately unloaded into them, and each shot brought down another Infected, but there were still many, many more.

Dave tried to fire a few shots, but Ibrahim all but ripped open the driver side door to Dave's car and shoved him in. "Flee, _shaab_. I will distract them so that they do not pursue you."

"Are you fucking crazy? Get in here! They'll rip you to shreds!"

Bang. Bang. Two more fell. It still wasn't enough, and Ibrahim had to reload. "If I come, they shall catch up, entrap us within a circle, and we will both die. Drive! Do not stop! Go, you foolish boy!"

Dave stared for a good five seconds at the older man as he began firing more clips. He was right, of course. They would never gain enough speed to escape the horde in time. He had to leave now, or he was done for.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

Ibrahim nodded and returned to firing. Dave slammed the car door, hastily put the keys in the ignition, and fired up the car. The engine revved and growled. Dave wasted no time in switching to drive and flooring it. He sped away from the horde and from Ibrahim's future grave, plowing into the night and away from hell.

As he looked in his rearview mirrors, he saw blazing beacons behind him. It appeared that a good number of buildings were now aflame. The world was burning.

He couldn't go to Chicago yet. He needed to go to Holland, the city where his parents lived, first. Yes…he could outrun the disease in this car, at least long enough to collect his parents and get all three of them to Chicago.

_Tyler. Ibrahim. Rest in peace._

He had run out of gas after about a hundred and fifty miles, and all efforts to locate more had proved in vain. None of the abandoned cars he located in the area had any gas at this point. He still had approximately another hundred and fifty miles remaining in his journey to Holland. Dave didn't know how to hotwire a car, so any abandoned cars he found in the following days were completely useless to him. He had been walking for four days at this point, which meant that he had probably covered over half the distance remaining between him and his parents. He was tired, wet, hungry, and in shock.

He didn't have time to dwell on the recent past. He needed to keep moving on.

_God…let me be in time._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Very little action. I hope you guys enjoy though! Please review!

I hope that no one is offended by the religious part of this. It wasn't meant to be bad, but merely to illustrate contrasting view points. Neither I nor Dave are anti-religious.

Enjoy!

* * *

_"Ellis!" Dave called. Their pizza had finally gotten here after an unacceptable ten minute delay. Where was he? Ellis normally rushed to the dinner table._

_He found the mechanic sitting on the back porch, staring at a peaceful half-moon sitting in a dark sky, surrounded by a collection of shining stars, like glittering specks of dust scattered across the sky._

_"Ellis? You okay?" Dave asked._

_"Yeah darlin'…just thinkin' 'bout the day I first saw you."_

* * *

Ellis squinted, trying to see through the heavy fog that had engulfed the bayou. The almost unbearably high humidity made him feel like he was swimming through the air. He was soaking wet with fetid swamp water, which would probably be the case for the rest of the time in the swamp, since the humidity made it almost impossible to dry anything, assuming that one could even find a dry patch of earth.

The bayou was certainly a miserable experience. Ellis couldn't believe their horrible luck with that pilot turning mid-flight. It seemed that every time they managed to escape one warzone, they wound up thrown into another hell. Ellis had been bitterly disappointed when his plan to escape in Jimmy Gibbs' car failed. He had been so eager to be the hero to his friends. But they were right…at least they'd gotten out of that mall.

Ellis could tell that his comrades were exhausted almost to the point of collapse. They needed to find a safe-house quickly or risk camping out in the bayou, easy prey for mud men and other Infected. He was doing his best to remain buoyant and cheerful, but this swamp had a way of crushing high spirits. He was famished; every muscle in his body ached; and he felt like he could collapse at any minute and never stand up again.

"Hey guys? I think I can see a building up ahead," Rochelle declared suddenly, breaking the long silence that had fallen over their party.

Ellis squinted again. There was a shape standing in the distance. It was definitely a building; the outline of the structure was too large to be anything else. Ellis hoped to God that it could be used as a safehouse. Even if there were no medical supplies, they would at least have a chance to rest and eat.

As they approached the squat, brick structure, they discovered that it was a clinic of sorts. Its position out in the middle of nowhere, bordered only by swamp on three sides and decaying fields on the other, meant that it was unlikely to have any significant medical supplies. It appeared to be fairly sturdy and only had one entrance. There weren't even any windows. They could fortify this building and rest here for the night.

Coach sighed with relief. "Looks like we can rest here for the night young 'uns."

This whole scene reminded Ellis of the time he and Keith had discovered an abandoned church out in the woods when they were staying in Keith's grandma's cabin, but he didn't have the energy to tell it…not that any of his friends would let him finish the tale.

When Ellis got close, he heard voices inside the structure. He looked to his companions, whose tense gazes told him all he needed to know. They drew their weapons and edged as quietly as they could towards the door. Ellis leaned his ear against the wood and listened.

There were definitely only two of them, both guys. They sounded young, probably around Ellis' age. They were speaking in a language he couldn't understand, but Ellis heard them mention New Orleans several times. He strained his ears. Were they talking about Michigan? Their voices sounded tired and dispirited. They were speaking lethargically; one of them, whose voice was deeper than his companion's, seemed on the verge of breaking down.

He looked to his teammates. Nick shrugged. Coach seemed to be deep in thought. They didn't know who these people were or if they would let them into the safehouse. The stranger might decide to attack them if they mistook them for zombies or feared them possibly being carriers. Ellis knew that they would likely win that exchange, but he didn't want to risk violence or anyone getting hurt.

They stood there all of them in silence until Rochelle sighed and walked up to the door. She rapped her knuckles on it a few times and waited. The voices inside stopped immediately. One of them, the deeper voice spoke in a hush, but Ellis swear he heard something that sounded like "door" and "zombies." The other voice scoffed, and Ellis heard shifting as one of them got up and approached the door.

The door opened slowly. In the doorway stood a younger guy with incredibly curly blonde hair wearing a pair of filthy, ripped jeans and a wife beater. He wasn't particularly tall, being of around average height. His build was athletic and slightly muscular. His cheeks were still somewhat full, so he had probably been eating well up until recently, but his hazel eyes betrayed his utter exhaustion.

They all stood there awkwardly for a minute or two. The stranger said nothing, simply staring at Rochelle for thirty seconds or so before sweeping his gaze over the party, his eyes coming to rest on Ellis. Ellis felt kind of nervous at this scrutiny, but he merely returned the look with a smile.

Coach stepped forward, Rochelle backing up in deference to him. "Nice to see some human beings 'round here…you speak English?" he asked.

The blonde-haired man said nothing in reply for a minute, making Ellis believe that he probably didn't, until he finally opened his mouth and spoke with a hoarse voice. "Yes, I do." Ellis could tell by his accent that he was American, probably from the Midwest, though all Northerners sounded the same to him.

"You mind if we share some space with you and your friend?" Coach asked.

The man smiled, although Ellis could tell it was forced with difficulty. He stepped back and gestured with his arms to indicate that the party should enter the humble clinic. They did so, and Ellis immediately collapsed onto the floor, hurtinghis ass in the process. At least he could sit down after so many long hours of trekking through that hellish swamp.

The other guy, taller and more muscular than his friend, stared nervously at Ellis and then at Nick. He shifted uncomfortably and hugged his legs to his chest. His hair, colored a shade of dirty blonde, was matted with sweat and dried mud. He buried his head into his knees, denying Ellis a look into his eyes. He seemed even more exhausted and dispirited than his friend.

After they bolted the door, Ellis and his group began the task of setting out their blankets and preparing a meal for themselves using what they had been able to scrounge up in the past few days. It was a meager, almost pathetic looking dinner that they prepared, but it was all they had. They offered to share their meal with the other two, but they politely refused. Ellis hoped that they didn't run out completely in the near future, or they would risk dying from hunger and exhaustion, enemies as dangerous as the Infected although slower acting.

The two strangers kept to themselves, talking quietly in their own language. Ellis was really good at reading people: he was just naturally able to gauge the emotions and intentions of other people, and it was difficult to get anything past him. Keith had certainly tried, and failed, many times over the course of their friendship. Ellis had been too good natured to call him out on that, preferring instead to retell the wild tales for entertainment. Some of the craziest ones were actually true though.

Ellis felt in a story telling mood. "Did I ever tell you guys about the time Keith and I spent the night in an abandoned church in the forest when we were at his grandma's? Oh boy, we got some mean scars, well, mostly Keith cause he was-"

"Overalls," Nick hissed, sharply cutting off the young mechanic's tale.

The blonde-haired stranger disengaged himself from his conversation with his friend and turned to them. "No, please go on. My brother and I have not heard a good story in a very long time," he said. Nick groaned loudly, but Rochelle and Coach merely chuckled, their silence being their acquiescence.

_Really? I'm gonna have a chance to actually finish? And so they're brothers…never woulda guessed it to be honest…_

So Ellis launched into the tale, so excited to have someone to talk to about his best friend that he kept stuttering over his words. When they were eleven, he and Keith went to go spend a week in Pennsylvania with Keith's grandmother. He provided lavish detail of how Keith had convinced him that they should spend the night there with a dare – no good Southern boy could resist one! They had thought that maybe there were ghosts there. Well, after a good six hours of waiting around, they hadn't run into any. They thought their luck was out, but then they heard a rustling nearby, followed by low, haunting moan.

Keith had rushed forward into the darkness to investigate the disturbance. Ellis stayed put, literally shaking in his boots. Just a minute after, Keith let out a high-pitched shriek, and Ellis heard frenzied flapping, snapping, and honking. Keith, bloody and terrified, sprinted in the opposite direction, leaving his attacker far behind. When they showed up an hour later at Keith's grandma's doorstep, the stern old Yankee brought her idiot grandson to the hospital.

"Was she angry?" the blonde one asked.

"What a fucking moron…" his brother muttered.

"Ooohhh boy, you bet! Only reason she didn't paddle him was 'cause he was already hurt. Poor Keith had to get fourteen stitches and rabies shots to boot!" Ellis explained.

The blonde one cocked his head in curiosity. "What attacked him?"

Ellis had a good laugh then, recalling the moment Keith had told them, his face red with fury and shame, what hurt him so bad.

"It was a frickin' goose. He musta tripped over its nest and pissed it off real good, and the old girl didn't take too kindly to that I reckon, cause she fucked him up somethin' else."

Rochelle, Coach, and the blonde-haired stranger burst out into laughter. Even Nick chuckled, but the dirty-blonde haired mess simply cracked a sad smile. They laughed for a good long while, the laughter helping bleed out some of the stress, exhaustion, and fear that had built up ever since their world had been blown apart.

"So…what language were y'all speakin'?" Ellis' accent and vocabulary was beginning to get more Southern. He felt nervous around these two for some reason, although they seemed harmless enough.

"Dutch," the melancholy, dirty-blonde kid stated.

Ellis nodded wisely. He wasn't very familiar with geography, but he knew that he was part Dutch himself, although that ancestry was so diluted that it barely mattered. "Can you teach me some?"

The blonde-haired guy graced Ellis with a warm smile. "What is your name?" he asked.

It was at that point that Ellis realized he had betrayed his upbringing by failing to introduce himself politely to these strangers. Even the zombie apocalypse was no excuse for forgetting his manners; his ma would've boxed his ears until they bled!

"Name's Ellis. Don't call me El, cause that kinda sounds like a girl's name, but if you want, I guess you can…" he trailed off. He felt kind of embarrassed, especially because he could hear his accent thickening.

"Okay. I'll teach you how to introduce yourself in Dutch. It's fairly simple and is pretty close to English. You have to say '_Mijn naam is Ellis.'"_

Ellis repeated the phrase a few times, winning a smile of approval from the blonde-haired guy.

"Well, how do you say 'what's your name?'" he asked.

"_Hoe heet je?"_

Ellis repeated the phrase again, winning another smile of approval. Coach had opened his Bible and was flipping through the pages, reading verses to Rochelle. Nick had dozed off, snoring faintly. The other stranger simply stared off into space.

"Very good, Ellis."

"Well…what is your name?

"Oh, sorry, I completely forgot to introduce myself. My name's Dave, and this beaming ball of sunshine sitting over here is my brother Paul," he replied.

"Fuck you, Dave," his brother spat out.

_God, this kid is really upset 'bout somethin'._

Dave sighed and shifted to face Ellis. His face was dirty, his lips dry and cracked, and it bore a few minor gashes. His eyes were exhausted – and sad, there was definitely a great deal of grief pooled up behind the hazel irises…but Dave looked strong. He seemed a little more cheerful now that he had had a good laugh. Laughter really was a cure-all for the spirit, just like Ma had told him when he got down.

"Your accent betrays you as a local. Where are you from?" Dave inquired, making Ellis flush slightly red with embarrassment.

Ellis judged that they were either in Alabama or Mississippi, a far cry from his native Georgia, but the mechanic was aware that such distinctions didn't really matter to most Yankees. "I'm from Georgia actually. Nowhere better than Savannah, that's fer sure. What about you?" Damn it, his accent was strong today.

Dave mused on that for a second. Ellis could tell he was altering his speech, slowing down and taking more time to consider his words. That was likely the reason why he was talking far more proper than was normal.

"We're both from Michigan. Our parents lived in the west, in a city called Holland near Grand Rapids, although I preferred to called it Christ-opolis," he replied, sarcasm entering his voice with the last remark.

At that remark, Coach looked up from his scripture reading and cast a look at Dave. "You have a problem with Christ, young man?" he asked tensely.

Dave raised his arms and shook his head. "No, my entire family, including this lummox here, is Christian. I'm atheist, but I don't mind it too much. There's just too much of it in Grand Rapids for me." He didn't mention the abuse he had suffered at the hands of his nominally Christian classmates for his homosexuality. He was not interested in debating the politics of a now-defunct political system here.

Ellis had expected the conversation to end there, but Coach and Dave carried the discussion further, discussing the tenets of various forms of Christianity and their biblical justifications. Dave, despite his atheism, seemed to be very well educated in matters of religion; Coach, though not as well versed in theology, knew the Bible cover-to-cover. The two of them rapidly became immersed in their discussion, so Ellis took the opportunity to relax his sore muscles. Nick had fallen completely asleep, slumping over onto Rochelle's shoulder. The news reporter didn't seem to mind too much though.

Ellis closed his eyes, and the sounds of the wind outside and the religion discussion taking place lulled him into dreamless sleep.

"Up and at 'em Overalls. You've got watch with Dave," Nick said as he shook the younger man awake.

Ellis looked up through bleary eyes and shook himself awake, stifling a powerful yawn. Paul was curled into a ball on the floor nearby, and Coach had fallen asleep on his blankets, Rochelle resting her head on his large and comfortable belly. Ellis envied her that comfort, though he knew it'd be a bit awkward if he tried to lay on Coach.

Ellis grabbed his guns and a crowbar and stepped outside. The first thing that hit him was the humidity. The air was even stickier than it had been during the day. Thankfully there was a light but constant breeze blowing through the bayou and the fields. The moon was showing about half of itself tonight, casting some light down on the earth.

Dave stood a few feet away, staring towards the fields. He hadn't drawn any of his guns, seeming to prefer a deadly looking machete. Ellis felt a bit awkward being out here alone with him, although he couldn't figure out why. He was nervous around the blonde-haired northerner, but it wasn't because Ellis perceived him to be a threat…it was something else entirely. He was nervous of looking like a hick or an idiot.

"So…how old are you?" he asked.

Dave jumped a little when Ellis addressed him. He had obviously been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed Ellis' presence. Ellis tensed up, worrying that he had screwed up.

But Dave didn't seem to mind, outside of a mild shock. "I'm twenty. My birthday was two months ago…not long before all this shit. You? You can't be much older than me," he replied.

"I'm twenty three," Ellis answered.

Dave merely nodded, and for a long time they stood in silence. Ellis opted to accept this, despite his natural discomfort that arose whenever there was a pause in conversation. He spent the hour thinking about cars, his Ma, Keith's adventures, and the old days. After a while, a question popped up in his head. He spent another fifteen minutes figuring out if was appropriate to ask Dave about his brother, finally deciding to go for it.

"So…what's your brother like?"

Dave grinned. "Why do you want to know? Are you into him? He doesn't swing that way, but maybe, just maybe, for a cutie like you, he might…"

_Whoa!_

Ellis' shock must have shown on his face, cause Dave brought it up. "Does that bother you, that I'm gay?"

"Naw…my Ma taught me a man's, well, I s'pose a woman's too, worth lay in their heart. Don't matter what their skin looks like or who they love or nothin'."

"Ah…how atypical for a Southerner," Dave replied off-handedly.

That actually kind of offended Ellis. "What's that supposed to mean?"

It was Dave's turn to tense up, clearly uncomfortable that he might have offended Ellis. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it."

Ellis decided to let it go and move on to his original point. "So…why's he so sad?" Ellis nearly kicked himself at that. That wasn't good wording at all, but Ellis wasn't good with words or dancing around the point. Of course people were sad; it's the apocalypse for Pete's sake!

"Ah…you know, we've seen some bad shit in our adventures," Dave replied. "I don't really want to talk about it, you know?" Though ending in a question, it was clearly a statement.

Ellis decided to drop the issue with a nod in affirmation. Although disappointed that is curiosity wasn't going to be satisfied, he took heart from the fact that Dave's caution was slipping slightly. He was moving away from his formalized speech and talking more normally, showing that he was becoming more comfortable around Ellis. Ellis took that for a victory, content with his progress, even though it was all come to naught when they split tomorrow. He mused on these things, and spent the rest of the night in silent contemplation as the half-moon gazed down curiously at the pair, the constant, light breeze tickling their sweating faces, the night at peace for the first time in many weeks.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **We are taking a brief break from Dave's adventures to glimpse into the future of Rochelle, a survivor we know and (hopefully) love.

* * *

Rochelle ducked into an alley to avoid a racing spray of bullets shot her way. These terrorists must be completely bat-shit crazy, to be shooting at fucking civilians! Surprisingly, none of her crew had been shot yet.

She must have been crazy for accepting this assignment. The Temple of the Sun Angels had turned Boston into a warzone fighting the soldiers of the New England Alliance. The army had spent the greater part of a year fighting them, but the rebels were damned persistent. The fight was costing valuable lives in a country, a world, so devastated that they could hardly afford to waste their greatly reduced manpower in a pointless war. Why couldn't the TSA understand that?

_Screw this._

Rochelle had come equipped with a magnum. She never went anywhere without a gun these days. She slipped around the corner and set her sights on three militants protected by a great deal of rubble. Their heads, however, were exposed. She was a damn good shot, so this wouldn't be a problem. God knows she'd had to cover for Dave, the world's biggest klutz, for long enough. She held her pistol in front of her, took careful aim, and let the bullet fly.

It was a perfect hit. The militant collapsed to the ground, his corpse obscured from her vision by the rubble. The other militants took about ten seconds to notice their fallen comrade, a fatal error on their part. Rochelle aimed again and shot, taking another one in the chest, blood rapidly staining his shirt. Hot damn, she was good!

The nanosecond she took to gloat cost her. The other one turned faster than lightning and fired at her. The bullet caught her arm, and she screamed in pain. She quickly ducked behind the alley before he could finish the job. Damn her arrogance, but at least she had been able to take two of them down. One of her assistants rushed to her and took out a first aid kit, drawing out cloth and bandages to stop the bleeding while wrapping it in gauze. Through the screaming pain she heard a spray of machine gun fire and a scream. It seems the soldiers had overwhelmed the fucker who had shot her. Served him right.

She noticed that one of her cameramen, James, was focusing the camera on her. Damn him, this was not the time for this! But she knew she was wrong; this was perfect for her story. So she clenched her teeth as hard as she could, held her wound as hard as she could to stop the bleeding, and spoke to the camera, trying her best to speak above a pained whisper without screaming.

"This is Rochelle reporting live from Boston, where I've just taken fire from TSA militants." There was certainly no need to mention that she wasn't exactly an innocent bystander here. "The battle here is pretty heavy, and the civilian casualties have been mounting in the past few days. We can only hope that the military will take care of this soon," she reported. Damn it, she couldn't do it anymore. "Jimmy, cut the fucking shot!" she yelled.

Jimmy put the camera down and stepped forward to assist in the first aid. Rochelle endured it as best she could. She'd seen plenty of her own blood and taken three bullets during the zombie war. Once, another survivor driven completely crazy had shot at her, but that bullet had barely grazed her, and Nick took him down before he could do any more harm. Another time, Ellis had accidently shot her in her left hand, and boy, she had let him have it for a long time. It wasn't really his fault: the mist and the rubble made shooting accurately really difficult, and she was honestly surprised there hadn't been more friendly fire. Ellis' guilt had shown on his face for weeks, and she'd heard him crying remorsefully more than once.

And the third time…no, she wasn't going to think about that. She may have taken the bullet, but no one had walked away from that day without scars.

The sounds of combat drifted away and became quieter. The military was pushing the militants back. Hopefully they'd finish them off soon enough. The terrorists threatened everything the survivors had looked to build…but in some ways, she couldn't blame them.

They'd abandoned a lot of people in the wake of the evacuation, especially in the cities where the infection first spread. The Green Flu had reached New England within a few days, and the situation there had become so fucking crazy so fast that the government only had time to hastily evacuate a few survivors before the whole region was overrun. The survivors who held out in New England fought tooth and nail for their lives, and rapidly became disillusioned with the old ways that had failed them in their time of greatest need. The TSA was just one group of crazies, but one of the very few that tried to enforce their demands through violence. Most of the others tried to work with the system.

Damn it, she didn't have time to be thinking about this.

She wasn't bleeding profusely enough to worry about her, and she doubted she'd lose her arm. They needed to get out of here now.

She and her team stumbled out of the alley and backtracked to the military outpost. Thankfully, they ran into no militants, or they likely would not have made it back alive. They made their way through the ruins and reached the base after about half an hour.

When they approached, a few soldiers ran out to them. "Holy shit, they shot a reporter?" one of them declared in shock.

Rochelle laughed weakly. "Kinda took a few shots at them…got two…the other one got me…damn it…" She felt dizzy and could hardly stand.

The soldiers looked at her, obviously impressed that a news reporter had killed two of the enemy. They didn't stand around admiring her for long though before they brought out a stretcher and shipped her off to the infirmary.

When she was there, a doctor came to look at her wounds. He told her that she would be fine, but they needed to conduct some field surgery now. He took out a needle, which made Rochelle slightly nervous. She had never liked needles all that much, but it didn't hurt too much when he injected the anesthesia into her.

At that moment, as it set in and her vision began to fade, she thought of that story Ellis had once told her, back on that first day when they met Dave and Paul, about his idiot friend Keith and his violent encounter with a goose. She chuckled weakly, missing all her old friends suddenly, but briefly, before black surrounded her and she fell into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
